And since the attack which had consigned him to darkness he had grown even more taciturn. He had not repelled sympathy; he had rendered it impossible by ignoring the existence of a cause for it. While all about him had feared for his sight and, as hope faded, had dreaded the question which they believed to be trembling on his lips, he had either never hoped, or, drawing his own conclusions, had abandoned hope. At any rate, he had never asked. Instead he sat—when Arthur was not there to enliven him or Fewtrell to report to him—wrapped in his own thoughts, too proud to complain or too insensible to feel, and silent. Whatever he thought, whatever he feared, he hid all behind an impenetrable mask; and whether pride or patience or resignation were behind that mark, none knew. Complaint, pity, sympathy, these, he seemed to say, were for the herd. He had ruled; darkness and helplessness had come upon him, but he was still the master. Arthur might think that he failed, but those who were always about him saw few signs of it. To-day, when Josina entered his room she found him on his feet, one hand resting on the table, the other on his cane. “Get your hat and cloak,” he said. “I am going up the hill.” So far his longest excursion had been to the mill, and Josina thought that she ought to remonstrate. “Won’t it be too far, sir?” she said. “Do as I say, girl. And tell Calamy to bring my hat and coat.” She obeyed him, and a minute later they left the house by the yard door. He walked with a firm step, his hand sometimes on her shoulder, sometimes on her arm; but aware how easily she might forget to warn him of an obstacle, or to allow for his passage, she accompanied him with her heart in her mouth. Yet she owned a certain sweetness in his dependence on her, in the weight of his hand on her shoulder, in his nearness. Before they left the yard he halted. “Look in the pig-styes,” he said. “Tell me if that idle dog has cleaned them?” She went and looked, and assured him that they were in their usual state. He grunted, and they moved on. Passing beneath the gable end of the summer-house they descended the steep, rutted lane which led to the mill. “The first day of the year was such a day,” the Squire muttered, and raised his face that the sun might fall upon it. When they came to the narrow bridge beside the mill, with its roughened causeway eternally shaken by the roar and wet with the spray of the overshot wheel, she trembled. There was no parapet, and the bridge was barely wide enough to permit them to pass abreast. But he showed no fear, he stepped on to it firmly, and on the crown he halted. “Look what water is in the pound,” he said. “Had I not better wait—till you are over, sir?” “Do as I say, girl! Do as I say!” He struck his cane impatiently on the stones.